In my reflection of first seeing Prabhupada,which was in Atlanta, I whipped up this poem:
Oh, how we all loved him
His message was not born from a whim
What enticed was not age or looks
More so the deep content in his books
He was hale and hearty, not frail
When we walked with him on the trail
In the green called Piedmont Park
Winter morning and not dark
I tried to catch a word he’d say
But distance kept the sound at bay
I turned to listen, hit a lamp post
My forehead hurt the most
Frankly my